Later
by kettsin
Summary: AU. Merlin lives in NYC. Arthur moves into the flat downstairs. Reincarnation. Drabble.


So this is just an exercise in boredom. And AUs.

Set in modern day New York. Which, as I'm sure you'll realise, I know nothing about as I live in North England and have never set foot in America. Gwen's characterisation is OOC which I'm sorry about but couldn't help. Reviews, concrit, appreciated.

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Downstairs, Merlin can hear the constant thud-thud of Mrs Archer's brats hitting a balloon against the wall, laughing and shouting at one another with excitement. He knows it's a balloon because, first of all, it was the youngest brat's birthday yesterday and the gleeful screams of all her six year old friends are still ringing in his ears days later and, secondly, because a bright red one flew past his window earlier. And while he begrudges the brats more than is acceptable for an adult to dislike children, he can't help feeling sorry for their mother. The poor woman. Having to contend with her husband fucking off with some swedish lap dancer, having to manage three jobs on the go and care for two screaming brats who wreck havoc not only in their own flat but on every floor of the building. He supposes he could offer to watch them this evening but…well, it's a nice evening, one that's too fine to waste by hiding indoors.

Leaning over his impromptu fire-escape balcony, Merlin drags deeply on a fag before flicking it out of his fingers, watching it spiral down and crash land onto just another slab of harsh concrete pavement. All around him the faint hase of dusk licks its mark across New York, blurring the passing streak of pedestrains hurrying home until they're all one mass and obscuring the mirrors of shopwindows. In the distance he can hear pigeons cooing softly to one another, calling stragglers back to the nest, back home.

Mrs Archer's shouting drowns out whatever thought was coming next and Merlin's grateful for that. It's easy to get lost in the bustle of other's lives. To forget that there's somewhere to be and your own people to meet. He's less grateful, however, when she hauls open her window with a frustrated slam, deep brown curls covering her face for a brief moment before she tossess her head back and calls up the fire-escape to him. "Merlin!"

When her eyes meet his, she looks relieved. "Mrs Archer," he responds, gaze lingering on a dog cocking its leg up by a tree across the road, before averting his full attention to her. "How are you?"

"Gwen," she corrects automatically. "Oh, you know." Comically, she lumbers out of the too-small window, tripping on her way up the ladder towards him. "Actually, I have a favour to ask you, if it's not to much hassle."

Yes. Yes, it is.

Trying not to wince, Merlin feels refusal dancing across his lips but knows that when she does inevitably ask him to babysit her children he won't beable to stop himself from acquiescing. As lovely and kind as she is, in Gwen, there's steel and he'd prefer not to be on the receiving end of her displeasure. "What can I do to help?" He has no doubt that if someone double crossed her, she'd have no problem wipping out the carving knife and irradicating them from the face of the earth.

"Well, I promised Mr Danes that I'd show around the potential new tenant for the third floor this evening and I won't beable to if Alicia and Michael tag along." Merlin notes how her forehead creases up at the mention of her children, forming lines that wordlessly tell him of their landlord's displeasure and the numerous lectures Gwen had received on disturbing other tenants, in the past. Danes bears the brunt of the damage for the children's mischief and, as such, can't abide them. Merlin figures that the only reason he allows Gwen to stay is because she's so congenial. Generally, speaking. "So, I need someone to look after them."

Smiling in a not entirely sincere way, he tried to look as though he'd enjoy the prospect of watching the brats and as if he didn't consider them to be the spawn of Satan (read: her husband). Unfortunately, he'd never been all that good at lying and from the look she was giving him, the expression must have come out more as a wince than anything else. "I'd be, uh, happy to."

Gwen raised an eyebrow and, for a second, Merlin was horrified to notice the uncannily similarity between that look and the one his uncle used to leer at older women. Then she pulled out a pair of keys from her cardigan pocket and pressed them so hard into his hand that he almost felt the skin breaking underneath. Luckily Michael chose that very moment to hop out of the window and was about to try his hand at diving headfirst down a flight of stairs, before Gwen swept down them to rescue her little darling.

All he would remember from that night was the muted clash of soft blonde hair against the peeling beige paint of the staircase and the deep sound of a man's laughter echoing through the thin walls of Gwen's flat. Meaningless flutters of a moment which somehow, strangely, would fill him with more joy and more life than he'd felt in a long time. So when he wakes to Gwen gently shaking his shoulders, eyes sparkling happily in the darkness and telling him that she'd persuaded the men to buy the apartment – the man who hadn't just been a dream – Merlins feels relieved. It's a strange emotion and he can't understand why this stranger's made such an impression on him. Why this faceless, nameless person feels so familiar.

Later, Merlin will blame Gwen's cupboard of cheap wine and write it all off as an after effect of his hangover. Later, when the dreams come, of crimson blood staining golden fabric, dragons rising out of mist, of earth coated by corpses, he'll start to remember. But until then, Arthur'll just be the man living downstairs and life is simple.


End file.
